


no space among the clouds

by openended



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: F/F, Mornings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:59:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openended/pseuds/openended
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This, Susan decides, is new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no space among the clouds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [puffandruffle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/puffandruffle/gifts).



This, Susan decides, is new.

Not the somebody-else-in-her-bed part, or the waking-up-next-to-somebody-else-in-her-bed part, or even the waking-up-next-to-somebody-else-who-happens-to-be-a-woman-in-her-bed part. She’s used to that and has a finely-developed routine that involves being very careful and quiet and keeping the lights off and having an exact mental map of her quarters so she doesn’t stumble into a chair on her way to the bathroom.

No, what’s new about this is that she thinks she might actually _care_ about the woman next to her.

(And that the woman next to her is _awake_ ; Susan may have trouble waking up when it’s dark outside, but that difficulty never extends to mornings when she’s sharing her bed. Something about not falling into deep sleep when there’s another set of arms and legs to navigate around, probably.)

She puts that thought on the back burner for a while – an analysis to be done under an approximation of daylight, quite possibly with a large bottle of vodka because not only might she care about the woman smiling sleepily at her, the woman happens to be a telepath and working for the Psi Corps and that’s just a whole other thing to deal with and, if not vodka, at least coffee is necessary before she even begins to dissect her feelings on that issue – and returns the smile.

She’ll have to leave for her shift soon and, based on the position of Epsilon III outside her window, determines that she has thirty minutes at the most before needing to get out of bed. She’d skip breakfast – she has bread and peanut butter in her kitchenette and knows she can make it until lunch on that – if she weren’t so thoroughly convinced that both Garibaldi and Sheridan would needle her about it and not even her grumpiest attempt at _I overslept_ will counter what she’s sure will be an incredibly dopey smile.

“Stop thinking,” Talia teases quietly. She reaches out, gloves long discarded somewhere near the couch, and traces a line from Susan’s temple to her cheek, her lips, her chin, and finally rests her hand on the sheets in the space between them.

Susan knows that it isn’t telepathy (or if it is, it’s one of those emoting-too-hard-for-even-a-P1-to-miss-it things) and that her thought process is all over her face. She’s never been any good at hiding her mind’s inner workings first thing in the morning, which is usually why she makes it a point to get the hell out of bed before the other person has a chance to wake up and see what she really thinks about her decision-making process last night. But this isn’t the first time with Talia, it’s not even the second or third. 

It is, however, the first time she _hasn’t_ woken up with a pressing urge to be elsewhere when Talia wakes.

Surprisingly, that _doesn’t_ make her want to fumble through an excuse about shifts and breakfast and two guys who wouldn’t stop giving her a hard time if their lives depended on it.

If anything, it makes her want to call in sick. She hasn’t called in sick when she wasn’t contagious or incapable of standing upright in…ever, actually.

This is turning out to be a morning for new things.


End file.
